Picnic At The Bonfire Glade

[mark12_30]

Cami, Lossiel, and Gamba finally spied the poet, and tiptoed round til they had him surrounded. He was pondering mid the flames that flickered at his feet, and the depths of his profound eyes reflected the fires-- or did the fires merely envy his eyes that were the windows into the fires of his soul?

Lossiel stepped forward, lifted her stuffed pepper, and with a voice full of pathos, cried,

Now more than ever seems it rich to die
And launched the pepper at him.

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

cried Cami, as her stuffed pepper caught him just below the ear.

Then Gamba finished rapidfire with a stuffed pepper::
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
followed closely by apple Pie ala mode:
In such an ecstasy!


Gamba siezed the poet by one hand, pulling him forward. "Dance, for the nightingale, man! Life is shorter than we know!"


The poet's rage was just beginning to kindle. He closed his eyes, because he could not close his ears.

T'was not, the grief that now he wore,
from clothing being now besmirched,
but deeper sorrow yet he bore
for descration of such verse!

Gamba thought his might be a good time to let go of the man's hand, and find another place to be. He fled, followed by giggling Cami and graceful Lossiel, who turned to look over her shoulder and sing a few more lines.

[ September 23, 2002: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[Orofacion of the Vanyar]

The gentle golden light streamed in thin rays through the tightly woven canopy of the Old Forest, fading slowly away as te sun set. Evening creaped it's way eastward through the tall, thick trees and bushes. A rustle of dead leaves, crumpling softly under hoof could be heard if one strained their ear. But this evening the Old Forest was a bit more alive than usual. Arcon sensed it, and drew closer.

The forest was not its typical dark demaenor, even through the thick oaks and pines there was no hint of foul play, and infact, the broad leaves of dark maples and the heavy willows seemed to give way to the stars that began to come out, and let moonlight come to their carpet of leaf and bush. Silky silver light played games with the deep greens of the forest, shimmering on the holly berries and on the drops of dew that still remained in small, sheltered puddles.

The was a gentle shimmer of milky light on dark hair as Arcon pulled his cloak back, letting the soft balmy evening wind float around him. He was travelling east towards Rivendell on an errand of knowledge, to learn more in the lore of art and music. Attached to his saddle was a small basket, with a note written in smooth black ink. The elf smiled as he read it again in his mind.

There was a shout, and another followed what seemed like a war cry that pierced the night air. "A battle in the Old Forest? Curious..." Arcon thought to himself. He came upon a glade, populated with a most peculiar but pleasurable variety of Middle Earth's creatures, man and beast, orc and wraith. "Truly this is a merry picnic," Arcon said, "Nay! A feast!" he cried spotting the huge assortment of food that lay on the table ahead.

Just as Arcon dismounted letting Getathane stroll through the forest, a bit of food flew across the glade, then another. "A waste to be sure," the elf said to himself. He stepped through the trees, his cloak flowing behind him. Off to his right he saw two familiar faces, and he smiled.

"So sorry I'm late, my affairs seem to tie me up at all the wrong times. Is there any food left, or has it found its way from table to forest bed in all the furry?" Arcon smiled warmly at his much missed friends Gandalf and Bethberry.

[mark12_30]

They slowed from a run to a walk, and Gamba turned and spied Elendur.

Something about the fellow's demeanor gave him pause, and he turned, summoning his best imitation of poetic gallantry. "Hello. You look downcast. Is the food not to your liking? Or is the company somehow incomplete?"

Lame, lame, lame. Phura could have done much better, but he waited for the fellow's response.

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry rose and ran to Orofacion. She took both his hands in hers and held them close, smiling up into a well-known and much-missed face.

It is has been too long, good friend, but I am overjoyed to see you were able to make a diversion in your travels. They both ducked a flying missile intended for the Perilous Poet and muttered something with a bit of bemused embarassment.

Well, 'tis like nothing of the more serious battles you and I and Gandalf have fought, but right now perhaps the release has a valuable function. It reminds us to be mirthful as we celebrate the success of strenuous effort. Perhaps Shall I attempt to find some wine for you or shall we simply sit here with Gandalf talking?

Bethberry looked around for the Word-thief, wondering if he would care to compose a dirge here under cover with them.

[ September 24, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Rimbaud]

Muttering to himself as he purged himself of the offending foodstuffs, our errant pen-wielder sat himself beside an odd assortment of individuals and re-opened his tattered book, mercifully untarnished by the broadside of delicacies.

I stand with thee, a table 'mongst fables;
My larder stocked, yet still not sated.
A wizard, a hostess - these are but labels,
For seems to me, this meet was fated.

Ai! The rain dost threaten our friendly gather
(Not bad for me, I need the lather);
Yet stir thee not, oh! gentle drinkers,
For here we have some fine old thinkers;
See staff-holder here and here a narrator
I a poet - my name comes later
Such assorted guests here with us linger
Lo! wraiths, wights and there a singer!

Between this motley crowd of hues
We must deny the rain its blues
For 'tis no time to shelter this day
For in this glade a feast is laid!

We must have fires, and laugh all night!
Mayhaps some stories of mirth, and fright.
A speech or two shall, I'm sure, be made
In honour of those who ring this Glade;
For lest we all sin and forget,
We are the guests of those who let
Our scattered band of merry players
Through the woods, in all their layers,
To this most hallowed glen of burning...
See! E'en the Wight is turning!

Raising his glass, a toast! A toast!
To our fair hostess with the most!
Yet that's no glass, within his fist,
That shines so fair, sunlight kissed!
"Tis a dagger, don't you know it!
Lo! It comes hence, for our poet...

With that, the poet slumped to the ground, the Wight's fell blade embedded in his tunic. A great cheer rang up around the Glade and there was much laughter and happiness.

Some of the hobbits were crying, comforted by the elders; "Don't worry there, lad, the foul verse is ended! The Wight has saved us all!"

[ September 24, 2002: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

[Maikadilwen]

Sauron had no power over this forest, but one of Mordor's most loyal spies had received an invitation to a picnic in this forsaken place. Maika was the name she had been given and very fitting it was, for sharp indeed was her tongue as well as her black eyes. Her hair was black as the sky over Mordor itself, but apart from that she looked as innocent as any young woman could. Well...almost.
Roaming around in Bree, (actually close to winning a drinking contest) she suddenly found that a basket had appeared among her belongings, noticed the invitation and decided to take a look and then report back to Mordor.

Maika stopped and looked around at all the merry people gathered at the Glade. Men acting silly, elves so terribly fair and beautiful, annoyingly happy little hobbits and the cutest little fox. Aww, wouldn't we just love to cut off that tail.
She turned and sighed with relief as she spotted the familiar black robes of a Nazgûl. How nice to see a friendly "face". To her great delight she also saw a ghost, a glorious dragon and a wight.
She smiled her old wicked smile. "Maybe a party in a dull place like this will be fun after all. "

She went straight for the drinks and poured herself a huge mug of ale, turned around and took a better look at the strange gathering. Elven women in their fancy dresses (Ugh!) and mortal men showing off their skills. An elf with a meat cleaver in hand stood close to an over-armoured man with a glaive. What a pair, she thought, shaking her head and then jumped up on one of the tables to get a better view.

Then she heard the poetry. Foul and terrible poetry was burning her ears. Thankfully the wight soon put an end to that, the laughter returned and the feast could go on.

She couldn't help but to laugh when she saw Shelob, who by now was VERY drunk. A sad-looking elf and a hobbit were placed next to the spider and she raised her mug towards them with a smile, before dancing over to the wight who seemed to be without his master tonight. Placing her mug on the ground, she grabbed his hands and swirled him around with her. "Let's put some life into this party, shall we?"

[ September 24, 2002: Message edited by: Maikadilwen ]

[mark12_30]

Gamba crept forward, grimly fascinated by the hilts protruding from the Perilous Poet's corpse. He crept closer, closer, until he began to wonder whether he saw something stranger than anything he had seen at the picnic thus far.

While others milled about arguing whether they should accuse the wight of any crime and what they woul do if they succeeded in convicting him (since he was already dead), the poet's corpse began to assume a strange green hue, and shimmer a little-- almost as if a breeze was blowing across a still, green pond.

As he watched in horror, stifling a shriek, there arose from the poet's body a new wraith, hovering, rising, billowing a little on the breeze. Gamba seized the book of poetry out of the corpse's hands and rapidly leafing through, found the evidence he needed, as scenes and acts ripled through his hands. Now the shriek came whistling out of Gamba like a teakettle on the boil.

"Nnnnnnoooooooo! A Perilous Play-Wight!"

Everyone turned at the noise and a chorus of gasps issued forth.

[ September 24, 2002: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[VanimaEdhel]

Estelarion, too, found himself alone. He looked about, saw Elendur next to...Shelob? Oh dear...

Estelarion raised one eyebrow at the pair those two made. He went, got himself some ale, then looked around.

"Nooo! A perilous Play-Wight!" he heard someone shout. He raised one eyebrow again, as everyone gasped. He sighed, drained his mug, refilled it, and spied the fox that had been making his rounds.

Estelarion went over to the fox, and held out of big of meat to the fox.

"Suilannon, hû beleg (Hello, great fox)!" Estelarion said to the sweet creature, "Anìros aes (Do you desire food)?"

Estelarion looked at the creature kindly, holding out the food.

--------------

Sara soon abandoned Menelduliniel for some hobbit children that seemed to be her age (at least mentally). Menelduliniel sighed and looked around, lonely. She saw Gandalf, and went over to him.

"We meet again, Mithrandir!" Menelduliniel addressed the wizard, "What brings you to such a gathering? And whither are you going after this? Is it an adventure? Or are you simply patroling still?"

[GreatWarg]

The fox graciously accepted the food. Why thank you, lady!

The fox turned at the words perilous play-wight. And lo and behold, a fea was emerging from the poet's corpse. Nay, not a fea, a Wight! Several guests were not panicking. The fox shrugged. After living in the shade of the Downs for so long, and in the queer Old Forest, such things were quite natural.

What have we here? Our strange poet is a Wight! the fox exclaimed, moving closer for a better look. A hobbit trips over the fox.

[ September 24, 2002: Message edited by: GreatWarg ]

[Mithadan]

The Wight could not control himself. One verse too many. Sweeping out his blade, he ran the poet through. Let's see you make a rhyme with this! O untimely death...

Feeling invigorated, he was surprised to find himself swept up in some semblance of a dance by a simply hideous spider-creature. Its spinnerets swirled and its fangs oozed ichor as they swept about the glade.

Suddenly, he heard someone scream "...a play-wight!" He looked over his shoulder to see the coalescing figure hovering by the body of the poet. Well, this party was certainly looking up! Excusing himself from the vile clutches of the exquisitely foul spider (and promising a second dance later) he approached the Play-wight. "Hello cousin..."

[ElanorGamgee]

Rowan had been on her way to speak to Bethberry, who she now realizes is in charge of the picnic after the poet’s sudden recognition of the lady, when the man is suddenly stabbed by the Wight’s blade during the reading of his latest composition. The hobbit lass is too shocked to speak or move and simply stares with wide eyes at the corpse on the ground. To her greater horror, a ghostly form begins to rise from the body.

“A Perilous Play-Wight!” she hears a voice shriek. The hobbit does not need any further reasons not to remain staring in astonishment; she turns on her heel and dashes away as fast as her little feet can carry her, the dishes in her basket rattling as she goes. Unfortunately, she fails to see the fox in her way, trips over his body, and lands on the grassy turf next to him.

“Ouch,” she grumbles, momentarily forgetting her fright as she sits up and examines the damage done to her elbows and knees. “Ahem,” a voice says next to her. Rowan turns to see a rather annoyed-looking fox lying on the ground, his food spilled on the grass. The hobbit gasps and reddens with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry!” she exclaims, pushing herself off the ground and helping the fox up.

[ September 24, 2002: Message edited by: ElanorGamgee ]

[Gandalf_theGrey]

* The whirlpool of convergent time which had lapped at the edges of the wizard's mind while he'd walked up the trail to the glade had developed into a full-blown maelstrom once he actually stepped into the glade itself. It was quite a challenge to keep track of all that was happening, or might have. He got the sense that some picnic guests were attending the picnic during one year, while others attended during another year ... yet here was everyone all together at once. Years collided soundlessly, without most of the guests even being aware. *

* Gandalf remembered suggesting to Lassiël that for a firsthand account of the Old Forest's history, Bethberry was by far the most suitable one present for the telling of it. Goldberry too was steeped in the local lore. And none, not even our poet, could beat Tom for being "well-versed" in the ways of wood, water and hill. *

* A Hobbit named ... Cambi, or Cama, or Gamba, or Gimbi ... had approached, speaking as if he knew Gandalf well. Gandalf could not for the life of him remember who this Hobbit was, but for the present had played along and just went with the ebb and flow of the stray time-convergence current. There'd also been another Hobbit, Rowan, with whom he'd exchanged greetings. Gandalf looked forward to getting to know both of these Hobbits better as the party progressed. *

* Gandalf had fed chicken to the fox and fixed himself a plate of chicken, bread and butter, taters, mushrooms, green beans, and cheese. With the wizard's back turned, the black steed Midnight had helped himself to a picnic supper, sticking his nose full into a bowl of carrots and then a serving bowl of salad meant to serve several dozen people. A pail of water set aside to be brewed into tea served the horse as a convenient source of drink. *

* Gandalf had remembered laughingly ducking pies with Bethberry. Once grey robes had taken on the decided hues of cherry and lemon. Meanwhile, lemon and blueberry blended in quite nicely with Bethberry's dress of yellow and cloak of blue. *

* Arcon, a good friend who was always a welcome sight, was just now arriving. *

* Menelduliniel approached, and Gandalf told her he hoped she and Estelarion would provide musical entertainment after the feast. As to her questioning, Gandalf could understand her curiosity, because the original plan was to travel South from Sarn Ford to Tharbad. Now he simply answered that he was bound for Rivendell. He'd veered off the path towards Castle Maladil for the present, even though putting off the journey to Tharbad meant he'd have to backtrack. *

* Gandalf thought he'd seen and heard a poem recited by a wandering minstrel who kept losing or dropping his papers, but on looking around, the poet was nowhere to be found. Must be another instance of convergent time playing tricks on his mind, and the poet had been a shimmering mirage all along. *

[ September 24, 2002: Message edited by: Gandalf_theGrey ]

[Cuthalion]

Frantically scrubbing at his leathers after spitting miruvor all over himself in a most undignified fashion upon hearing the words "...a Play-Wight!" Elendur suddenly froze, having scarcely heard the words of the young Hobbit Gamba. For into his line of sight had walked a most intriguing beauty. He was instantly captivated by her magnificent hair and the air of exotic evil that surrounded her.

Tossing aside the miruvor, he determined to steal her away from her erstwhile dance partner. Suddenly the picnic had definite possibilities...

[Maikadilwen]

Not standing still for a moment, Maika merrily danced her way over to the food table where a hobbit had just tripped over the fox she had noticed earlier. Grabbing the fox, she spun around with him in her arms. "Are you aware that you are far too cute for your own health, my red friend?", she said with a wicked smile and rubbed his ears. "But these people don't feed you enough. Now eat and be happy". With those words she placed the fox on the table so he could reach whatever treats he desired.

She turned to take a closer look at the happenings. She stepped over to the wight she had just danced with and what appeared to be his distant cousin, and gave him a wink. " A PLAY-WIGHT? And an awfully handsome one that is. Now all we need is your master, the barrow-wight to come join us", she said with a smile and danced over to the poor Nazgûl. She grabbed his robes and planted a kiss on the nothingness under the dark hood. "Hello my dear old friend" , she laughed and swiftly moved back into the crowd.

[ September 25, 2002: Message edited by: Maikadilwen ]

[Elenna]

"Yes, a contest of arms would be interesting. But this dress is a total loss. Please excuse me."

Elenna grabbed a bundle off of the back of her horse and dashed to a remote clump of bushes. Quickly she changed into leggings and a tunic, buckled her sword around her waist, and braided her hair, tying it with a leather strap.

Then she ran back to where Ransom and Revanas stood. "Now I can compete!"

[Bêthberry]

The narrator observes the Picnic writing itself, or, rather, wighting itself:

Murder ! Murder most foul.

No, not that done to the poet's verse. Good poets die young. Rather, the Poet has evaded the Roman charge to die upon his own sword. He's laid the deed to the hand of another. This is the unkindliest cut of all.

Ah, yes, the poet has slaughtered civility. The best-laid plans of the gentle Wight, appearing for pleasure and delight, have been met by having business thrust upon him. And the nasty part at that, which is entertained so rarely by this particular patient, decent Wight.

And do the voices call out to avenge his honour? No, they do not, these ungrateful Dead. Instead, they clamour for charge and punishment, elevating the poet to Wight's status, ignoring the Author of us all, the Barrow Wight, and giving lament for the dead poet's society. If Barthes could see this now. *shakes head* Mad Frenchmen stick together.

Humpf. All this would not have happened had that woman in yellow not gone cowering under bushes and mewling, "A dirge, a dirge. My picnic for a dirge." Doesn't she remember how the hobbits ruined this place the first time? And look, another has approached, Rowan, though it's a rough greeting she's received. Maybe this purported hostess is beginning to understand why I wrote her out of the invitations.

And what's this we have now? Love and honour making appearances. Who walks in with the power to make love groan? Nay, lay on, McElenna.

[ September 26, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[piosenniel]

Lossiël shook the detritus of the food fight from the folds of her gown. A wreath of leaves askew on her brow, was set right. What had come over her, she wondered?

The fleeting image of a frenzied woman caught in the wild throes of pursuit came to her, and she shook it from her head. Another time, another age, she reminded herself firmly. 'Avoid the wine.' she thought to herself. 'Stay true to character in this age and time.'

She laughed, and moved beneath the shelter of the trees, regaining some measure of her dignity with each step. She stopped and turned and leaned against an old willow, its trailing branches affording her some obscurity as she watched the party flow on.

'What an odd place this all is!' she murmured to herself. A trailing branch, its leaves brown and sere, crept over her shoulder. She twined her fingers in it, thinking she should deliver the gifts her Lady had sent and then be on her way.

The willow stirred in its shadowy slumberings. A feeling of vigor, almost forgotten, spread then from branch to root. Green-leaved now, it shook its branches and stood straight and strong. Its rich, mellow voice woke her from her musings.

'Do not leave now, my Lady! Stay for a while among us. The trees of Arda Marred have need of you. Wake us from our darkling dreams.'

[mark12_30]

The Neekerbreeker, deciding that she had been silent for far too long, looked out from under the collar of the young hobbit whose shoulder she had ridden these past several hours. He was once again seated under one of the tables, munching an apple, looking out at all the spiders, wariths, and assorted wights and other Creatures.

Bird The Neekerbreeker chirped,

"Wee sleekit, Cowrin', timorous beastie,
O what a panic's in thy breastie!"

"Panic enough," replied Gamba. "This place is getting downright creepy."

"Wasn't it before?" Neekerbreeker replied. She junped down onto his forearm, and started rubbing her legs together in preparation for taking a bite out of him.

"HEY!" He knocked her flying. She was lucky he didn't squash her flat.

"Sorry, " Bird mumbled. "Hungry."

"Then change to something else!" snapped Gamba, eyeing her warily. Bird morphed back into human form, sheepishly, and got out from under the table.

"Vampires?" Gamba said with a shudder. "What next?" He got out from under the table, and went looking for Cami or Gandalf.

[VanimaEdhel]

Menelduliniel saw that Gandalf was not all there in thought. She thought it better to leave the wise Istar alone. She left him and got herself some ale. She saw Estelarion flirting with a male fox over at the other side of the grounds.

Well, at least he is having fun, Menelduliniel mused to herself.

She drank her ale and watched as Estelarion approached, smiling like a fool. They stood in silence, drinking...

[Bêthberry]

No one had seen Bethberry excuse herself from the culinary campaign, and, in a mood relatively subdued after all the hijinks, no one had paid particular attention to the north end of the Glade. Dusk was falling and the evening chill was coming on. The forest became ever more alive and aware--a fact which the picnic guests could now no longer ignore. Suddenly, light flared from the north end, illuminating faces in strange, dancing, distorted images.



The bonfire was lit, Bethberry reappeared, and in her calm voice, somehow made eery by the dusk, she said, Let the stories begin.

[Ransom]

“Let the stories begin.”

The Daughter of the River’s voice seemed to take a life of it’s own, fluttering from gust to guest. Everyone heard it, from the smallest animal to the dreaded Play Wight. Even the animals seemed to hear it, for all manners of fowl and denizens of the wild answered the call. The voice seemed to draw the guests toward the fire, promising much but revealing nothing.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++

Ransom considered Elenna’s request. He did not believe the People of the Wood competed in the same games as his own people. The memories of rough wrestling matches and mounted hunts reminded him of his home. But none of these games were suitable for a lady. He didn’t think she would appreciate being tacked and having an eye gouged out. Humph. These savages.

At the exact time, a very different set of thoughts were running through Revanas’s mind. He had never viewed his martial skills as entertainment or fun. He fought for the Feanturi, his blade brought release in the name of Mandos. He had always considered the use of martial skills as a waste of time. On the other hand, he had quite a bit of time to waste.

“Let the stories begin.”

So there was the hostess. She seemed unearthly in the dark, a cross between the Banshee and the Angel. Her words echoed through his head, compelling him to drop his conversation and come sit around the fire.

Revanas and Elenna followed Ransom’s lead. Revanas borrowed a few choice dishs from the tables while Elenna set up a small picnic area. Ransom tried to help, but it quickly became apparent that he had no idea on the ‘proper’ way to set a table. Sara skipped over and joined the group.

Elenna left the curiously heavy brown bag at the bottom of the basket, figuring that she had no business poking through Ransom’s personal items. Revanas returned, bearing much meat and other necessities of life. Ransom bowed to the east, chanting in a tongue never before spoken in the Old Woods. Revanas settled for a short prayer to She Who Weeps. Sara clumsily imitated her father. The odd quartet began to eat, making conversation before the stories started.

Ransom enquired of Elenna, “Lady, what part of the Dark Woods do you live?”

[piosenniel]

'Bethberry!', came the clear voice of Lassiël, stepping from beneath the shadows of the forest. 'I have come from far away and would know the story of the Bonfire Glade. How came these trees to be so sad. Can someone tell me of it?'

The trees seemed to lean in to hear her response. They murmured at the question, and their dry leaves rustled though no wind disturbed them. Long and ancient shadows, driven outward from the crackling fire, now inched in of their own accord.

'We are waiting, Bethberry. Will you speak?'

[Elenna]

"I am from Rivendell, friend Ravenas. Where are you from, both of you?"

But Elenna was hushed by those around her. The storytelling had started.

[VanimaEdhel]

Estelarion and Menelduliniel grabbed some plates, utensils, and food and went over to join Revanas and Elenna.

"Mereys na er (Do you wish do be alone)?" Estelarion asked Elenna and Revanas. When they beckoned that it was okay for them to sit down, he said, "Aarathyn o llie (We will sit with you)."

They sat down, Menelduliniel next to Sara, and Estelarion beside her, to listen.

[ September 27, 2002: Message edited by: VanimaEdhel ]

[Bêthberry]

From out the dark shadows stepped Bethberry, in answer to Lassiël's call. Around her neck a simple medallion, thronged with leather, shone with a pale aura, but it oft was hidden in the folds of her cloak as she walked. She walked around Estelarion and Menelduliniel, Elenna and Revanas and Ransom. She caught Gamba's eye and Cami's nod, couldn't see the Neekerbeeker, saw Maika kiss and run with Cuthalion overcome. She looked to see that the Fox was guarding Rowan. Shadows of dusk cloaked other guests.

Let me warm--or, rather, chill--my audience first before the tale be told, fair and welcome guest. Then we shall see who will remain to hear it.

Come hither, guests, and huddle close, for the trees will harken also to my words and as they lean in, beware the branch that, twining and shivering to this tale, would lay claim to your courage.

This is a tale to honour this night, September 28, for it happened not far from here.

Plates were pushed aside, mugs forgotten as the picnic guests shuffled forward, rubbing shoulder to shoulder for reassurance.

The story is "Fog", said Bethberry, her strongly coloured voice, a contralto, carried forth on the night-chilled breeze.

The whispered tales had been true and they had heeded them not. In a cold and clammy, dank, dark barrow, four grim hobbits lay frigid, sword across their throats, in thrall to the Barrow Wight, stone chilling their marrow, a darksome snarl misting the air, a cruel arm scratching the surface of their hope and throttling it.

Bethberry stopped, swallowed saliva to coat her dry throat, and continued.

None of them then snickered at the nonsense verse as Tom bested the Barrow Wight.

Dead silence met the sudden end of the story, followed by a few chuckles and laughter.


The laughter was not taken up by the Old Forest. There was something in the story of the Barrow Downs, however short, which kindled the memories of the trees. They shook themselves awake, as if from a long sleep....

(OOC: I shall be asking Mithadan to close this thread at midnight tomorrow, September 29, Grey Havens Day.)

[ September 29, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Eol]

The anicent tree listened to Bethberry's words and smiled, if a tree could smile.

"Ho hum, friends! Let spin my tale why my kin and I are what you see." The dark branches lowereed down and silence fell over the party.

"You see, many ages passed since I came to be. I am not old nor young, many cannot see. Since the fall of the two lights across the western sea, evil has slithered over these leaves."


"Númenóreans, you see, a Great race of Man they use to be. With their axes and saws, they hewn my cousins, three. They hewned down my brother, my sister, my wife, that make more then three. It was savage and strange how they contiued dispite the change."

"This change, you would think, was queer when seen. It happened, not long after, to my friend willow, still among us trees. Willow, you see, took revenge of those who cut too freely."

"The first was a man, hungery and eager for a quick harvest for his own treat. The blade was brought up, the branches came in close. There was a scream, a terrible scream. But no one heard it, you see. Because, that old willow, ate that man times three. More came, seeking that odd fellow, found the blade and the unfelled tree. They could never figure out the mystery."

"So I warn you this night, that even trees can suffer from plight. Loss and death can seethe into the very wood that can change. That change can happen to anyone, even me."

"Beware this forest,my friends, travel quickly. Many are hungery and seek a quick feast, little chlidren and hairy are the sweetest"

"I am a sentry, an Ent. These tree as sneeaky, quick at best. They smell fear and evil in the hearts and seek to be rid of it. Sauron is sneaky and caddy. He wants to dwell here, he wants to stay. Nay I will not let him claim what he did with my brethern: the yews, the berches and pines. Nay he will not take as he did Thranduil's kingdon, and destroy it, no spirit could remain."

The oak dropped silent, briging his branches up proudly, as many of the trees do.

[Bêthberry]

A chill spread throughout the Glade.

Roiling and coiling, a dank mist swarmed over the ground, covering root and burrow, tunnel and hole, making the terrain treacherous.

A dark wind whipped the flames of the bonfire, broadcasting sparks among cloak and gown and tunic.

The trees began to twist and lean; their branches snapped, switching air and ground. Moaning, they rose, all of one accord, and marched towards the guests.

[piosenniel]

Now were those gathered affrighted, and a great dread came upon them. And they drew together in the center of the Glade, huddled near the fire, seeking the safety of its light and heat. Chill gripped each heart as the fog flowed over the flames and dwindled them to sodden embers.

The trees pressed forward, slow and relentless. And the ancient rage of all their Ages went before them like a great howl. All within the Glade cowered now, and closed their eyes against the terrible shadow now approaching. Leaves rustled furiously, like the sound of myriad fell knives. Branches snapped in the air dangerously, cold whips to sting the flesh and spirit. 'We are doomed! All is lost!' came cries from the once merry guests.

Then did Lassiël step forth and a great Light shown in her face. And extending her arm, hand palm outward toward the trees, she turned full circle, and bade them stop. She tapped her foot once upon the ground, and their roots sank deep into the soil.

'Stay!' she bade the trees, in a voice that pierced the darkness of their hearts. 'Stay, and listen with me! I would have the story of this Glade and Forest, the justness of your long anger made clear to me. Then shall we see what doom appoints.'

A great silence, electric with expectancy, flowed then from the halted Forest. And Lassiël, held out her hand now to Bethberry, and said again:

'Tell us the story of this place!'

[ September 29, 2002: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Carnëiach]

The trees began to lean, snapping their branches at the guests. "We are doomed! All is lost!"
The sprite rolled her eyes. "Oh please, thats not even origional!" She muttered quietly. Stretching out her arms she sighed and vanished into a sheen of silver in the air.
She floated on the breeze through the trees, murmering quietly and soothingly to the irritated and menacing boughs. In the camp Lasseil was seeking justice for them. The elemental felt the change of air between the trees and sighed with relief, drifting back to the camp and resolving herself near Bethberry. The mysterious one looked at her, smiling slightly.
"I was not aware we had an elemental gracing the party."
"Indeed. Please noble one, tell us the story of the glade." The sprites voice was like rush of birds in flight in the quiet morning and the woman of the forest smiled back at her.
"Then tales you shall have, sprite." She began, the colours of her voice weaving with the echoes of memories and magic.

[ September 30, 2002: Message edited by: Carnëiach ]

[piosenniel]

Lassiël retreated beneath the boughs and sighed.

'So be it!'

[VanimaEdhel]

Menelduliniel and Estelarion stood up and stepped forward.

"I am no good with ghost stories," Menelduliniel began, "But I do know a good song, if you will let me sing it..."

With that Estelarion took out his silver flute and began, Menelduliniel accompanying him in the slow, eerie, haunting song...

Iire i'Ithil erin fuin fanui
Nen or i'cew en yrn dol
Lle gliries an nîn en erin cuiant
Ta carant hûnamin mudoa lim
Hi erin amin golos amin non na baramin na vedui
Lle ones nîn rama en thoron
A amin gwilathon aen ar linathon aen
Ar yassen amin gimen i'hûl aew fuin
An i'eryn amin gwilen
Ar ned i'fuin raden lle na.
Ar garas golodh mellye u'naa thent
U'mithlye cant
Be i'ithil ar i'loth en nen
Libidlye yanwai, hînlye nai min
Non hwest en Ithil o lle.

Menelduliniel and Estelarion finished the eerie-sounding song to the silence of the others...

(OOC: Lyrics (originally in English) courtesy of "Samain Night" by Loreena McKennitt)

[Bêthberry]

. . . as if seemingly beaten. Then, charred branch and limb and bleeding stump stood quiet, letting the cleansing rain douse the fire and settle the ash deeply into the blackened earth, where its richness bore fruit in successive seasons. But the Old Forest has never forgotten. And none has ever apologized.

Bethberry stopped the mesmerizing tale, fearful that it would inflame unquiet spirits and uneasy guests. Would any take umbrage? Would any be inspired to atone?

As she looked around at embarassed, guilty eyes and hesitant,waving limb, she thought she felt a groundswell of frustration build, but suddenly the overcast sky thundered with pelting fury. A hard rain fell, stinging cold pellets which blocked sight and ripped leaf. Wind gusted in violent whorls, flinging hair and cloak and branch, even soil skywards. Goldberry's equinoctial storm forced passions into retreat. The trees hunkered down, branches wrapped tightly around trunks. The guests, sodden and chilled, huddled bare and cold in the full brunt of the storm until finally they were buffeted right into the trees. Yet branch upon branch then opened to shelter them.

As the grey dawn rose, the storm dissipated and the bedraggled guests unwound themselves from the trees' embrace. Stunned and subdued with a palpable sense of responsibility, they observed the Old Forest with new eyes and then slowly began to disperse to their various paths and trails, hoping to find the quickest way home. Just as most were leaving, Gandalf cried out,

Look, look to the hill in the west.

Tree trunks straightened and backs stiffened to follow Gandalf's gaze. There, at the top of the hill some claimed they could faintly make out Goldberry.





The Glade emptied to all but Bethberry and Lassiël, who stood, side by side, disheveled and wet, hair plastered around their faces, clothes drenched.

Well, said Bethberry to Lassiël, with polite deference but little ceremony, at least now you know why Dad always wears those outlandish yellow boots.

[ September 29, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[piosenniel]

Lassiël took Bethberry by the hand, and led her to the center of the Glade. She shook the rain from her gown, and it shimmered like green leaves beneath a summer sun. In her face shown the clear light of Aman, and she bid the trees close in about them.

They came then, and watched her as from out the bag hung at her waist she took two saplings. 'These are yours to nurture and protect. They come from the garden of the Lady, herself, and are meant as a sign that we who dwell apart, still hold Arda dear. Light is in these trees, and hope is written on every leaf.' She knelt down with Bethberry and dug a hole for each sapling, one at each end of the glade. They placed each carefully within, and tamped the earth down gently round the roots. And now did the silver and gold of the young trees' leaves shine out with a great light, reaching even to the darkest shadow.

The old trees murmured in an ancient tongue and crooned a song of growing and of strength. Lassiël passed among them with Bethberry. And where she touched, the trees straightened and leaves and flowers thickened on the once bare branches. The air lightened in the Old Forest, and a certain sense of peace stirred in the Ancient Heartwood.

'I must go now.' she told Bethberry, having come to the edge of the forest. Eärendil hung low in the sky, a bright point of light marking his place. 'Fare well!' she called out to the Forest. 'And if it chance so, that my Lady should send me, I will come again another year to be with you.' From the nearest tree, a tendril of ivy reached out and briefly curled itself about her wrist and then withdrew.

She turned then, to Bethberry, and bade her fare well also. Then she stepped upon the Straight Way and the face of the world sank below her.

[Bêthberry]

The saplings shall have my care and nurture, Bethberry said as a parting promise to Lassiël. She then nodded good-bye and looked up to Eärendil, gently caressing the star medallion Strider had presented her with. A fresh fragrance spread over the Glade.

She turned to tidy the Glade of the garbage and dishes from the Picnic and discovered another virtue of Goldberry's washing up. She chuckled.

Thanks, Mum.

[ September 30, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[Mithadan]

As the guests scattered and fled the Glade, the Wight stood smiling, waving his arms and shouting loudly. "Yes! This way! To the East and a bit to the North! There's a safe haven there! Just hide behind the stones and the trees will not catch you. Just hide there until evening and all will be well...." The Wight's voice shrank to a whisper, "Very well, indeed!"

Then whistling an eerie tune, he turned and followed the many guests who had fled to the East and a bit to the North. He checked his sword as he went. He was followed by a dozen cats, well-sated by the feast and goings on...

[Bêthberry]

The cats mewed and scattered in protest as several pebbles landed amidst them.

The Wight turned and none too soon, for a pebble passed, well, not exactly right through him, but close enough had the aim been more meanly meant.

Get out with you, Wight, laughed Bethberry in the sunlight. Be off to your barrow and leave off my guests. By sun and by song, by reed and by wood, all have safe passage in this Forest 'till night.

She stood with the wind tangling her hair, and with hey now! hoy now! floating through the air.

[ September 30, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

[ October 01, 2002: Message edited by: Elenna ]